


Good Company on a Journey

by Geonn



Category: DOUGLAS Carole Nelson - Works, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Warehouse 13
Genre: Alternate History, Canon Bisexual Character, Crossdressing, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Diary/Journal, Epistolary, F/F, First Time, Romance, Trains, Victorian, Writers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 07:58:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geonn/pseuds/Geonn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene writes in Nell's journal during a train trip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Company on a Journey

First and foremost, dear Nell, let me apologize for my handwriting in this entry. I never had the best penmanship, and now it's been exacerbated by the motion of the train. It's hardly a worthy companion to the pages preceding, which has been filled with your precise prose and lovely shorthand. Exquisite, Nell, how you're capable of turning something that looks almost like musical annotations and turn it into a story.

I must also apologize for usurping your role as our chronicler. At the moment you have been lulled into a sound sleep by the same movement that hinders my ability to draw a straight line upon the page. I have been watching you curled on your side of our berth, hands folded in your lap, prim and decent even in slumber.

Your sleep was helped along by the silence that fell between us after you asked your question. I'm reluctant to turn this into an endless apology, dear, but once again I must ask your forgiveness for how brusque I was. To answer your question requires me to return to a very turbulent time in my memory, one I've successfully ignored for quite a few years now. It seemed so simple to you, I'm sure, an innocent query, but had you known what a Pandora's box you were opening...! But I confess, of all my secrets, that is the one I have always held close to my heart for fear of letting it fade in the light of day. But you, Nell, are the one who deserves to know more than anyone. So I shall tell you now, in this form so there won't be awkward pauses or interruptions, and so you won't notice if I happen to spend a few moments lost in reverie before I continue.

I could sense the question on your mind from the moment we departed Neuilly, casting occasional sidelong glances to me as we rode in the carriage. You've matured past your shock at seeing me in slacks and a waistcoat, but I had little doubt as to the focus of your curiosity. You waited until we were aboard the train and settled in our car before you requested permission to ask a personal question. I gave it, warily.

"I understand why you wear men's clothing. But how on Earth did you start?"

Oh, such a simple question on the surface! The simple answer is that I began in 1888, in London, in a cramped loft above a bookseller. But I know you, Nell, and I can see by the ink-soaked pages that the simple answer is never enough for you. So in honor of your dedicated retelling of our many grand adventures, I will concede my innate sense of privacy in regards to my own past and tell you the entire sordid affair from the beginning.

It started with a woman with smudges of ink on her fingers. I noticed her because she sat stone-still amid a flurry of activity, smudged hands resting on the bench to either side of her, leaning forward as if peering at the world through a stage curtain. Her back was arched forward with interest, her head was cocked to one side, and she had a knowing smile on her lips that for some reason angered me, playing with my desire to know everything. This woman had a secret, and she wasn't telling. God, that infuriating smile!

I was younger then, and far more forward, and I couldn't restrain myself. I forgot whatever errand I had been pursuing and crossed to her. She seemed to sense my approach and turned to watch me come closer, straightening and lifting her head to meet my eye when I was directly in front of her. Silence was the third member of our group, and it swelled between us until finally I said, "What is it?"

She smiled and gestured at the square around us with one hand, her fingers spotted like a Dalmatian. She inhaled and then shook her head. "It's everything."

It was the only answer I would have accepted, Nell. I returned her smile, and I sat beside her on the stone to watch the world. Her name was Helena. As the square swirled around us, she began to entertain me with stories about the people we spotted. The unfaithful banker who was hurrying to some scandalous rendezvous, unaware that his wife - a surely innocent woman in a red dress - was observing him from the café. The girl who was planning to break away from her husband that very night, daydreaming about finally spending the night in her lover's arms. I was transfixed. The stories became truth, and I hoped I would never find out who these people really were.

I asked for the story of a couple strolling arm in arm while the third member of their party trailed behind. Helena thought for a moment and then said, "They both love her, and the shorter man loves them both."

"How tragic?"

"Tragic?"

I looked at her. "Well, yes. Heartache is tragedy."

"No one is heartbroken. They are lovers."

"What? The three of them?"

Helena dipped her chin in response and I smiled, hoped I wasn't blushing too noticeably. Oh, how I've teased you for your rosy cheeks, Nell. You will be shocked to know that I was once as innocent as you in such matters. The idea of three people engaging in a romance was terrifically scandalous to me. How Helena had thought of such a thing was beyond me. She was young, so much younger than I, and yet she seemed to have a firmer grasp on the way the world truly worked. Love was not an arrow; it could be like a wave.

By the time Helena and I were bored with the people in the square, twilight had fallen. Imagination was unnecessary now; everyone we saw was either on their way to home and hearth or to a fine dinner at one of the nearby establishments I would never hope to afford. I was loath to part company with my delightful companion, but she saved me by offering to make me dinner in exchange for being such a receptive audience. How could I refuse?

She lived on the second floor of a building that also housed a bookseller. The stairs were nestled in a nook between the shop and the outer wall, but I could still smell the glue of bindings, the thickness of the paper, the wood of the shelves. Helena's space could barely be called a "room," because there was hardly any of it to be found. Flat didn't quite suffice either, for every surface was occupied by teetering stacks of one thing or another. 

Helena sensed my problem with the disarray and quickly cleared away a seat, offering it to me as she turned to open an icebox made of dark Norwegian wood. I sat as she scavenged for food, and took the opportunity to investigate her space. Even then, Nell, I didn't let things pass me by if I could help it. A small window looked out over the entrance of the bookshop, and it was covered with a thin curtain that was parted to let in the moonlight. The bed was in the far corner, sheets and blankets twisted together in a manner that suggested she rarely bothered to tuck herself in. 

But my true focus was on the charcoal suit hanging on the wall beside the window. A bowler was hooked on the top corner of the icebox. When Helena returned with our victuals, I asked, "Is your husband at work?"

She regarded me for a moment and then followed my explanatory nod toward the suit. She turned and smiled. "Oh! That's mine."

"Yours? But that's a man's suit."

"You're quite sharp."

I stared, but already I could tell she was being truthful. The argument she made was very similar to the same one I offered you, Nell, when you first saw me in male dress. I was overwhelmed by the idea. Of course! If men insisted on excluding women from their backroom dealing, one need simply dress the part. It would take skill and practice to pass more than a cursory inspection, but the possibilities made my mind race. 

Before I could work up the courage to ask, Helena said, "Would you like me to demonstrate?"

I fear I was a bit too enthusiastic in my response, Nell, for she threw her head back and laughed. She stood and turned her back to me, requesting assistance with the buttons that followed the line of her backbone. My hands trembled slightly as I complied, and she shrugged her shoulders to free them from the material. I nearly toppled one stack of papers in my haste to put distance between us, and I gestured at the door. "I'll wait at the stairs."

"As you wish."

I waited on the tiny landing, my back to the door and my eyes cast down the long, shadowy stairs that led to Helena's rooms. I could hear her moving within, heard her soft footsteps as she had removed her shoes upon arriving home and was now, likely, stepping into or out of an article of clothing. My heart raced and my palms were clammy, though I couldn't have explained why. I wanted to see the transformation. I couldn't envision it in my head, and I was eager to see if she succeeded in making herself into a man.

I was still contemplating whether or not I should remain outside when I heard a heavy tread falling just beyond the door, and had just enough time to understand what was happening before the door opened. My shoulders were resting against it, and gravity took over. I tumbled, and fell across an arm that curled around my back and tightened on my upper arm. I looked up, vertiginous, and saw a man staring down at me. Helena righted me, made certain I was steady on my feet before releasing me, and took a step back. She extended her arms to either side, one leg extended with the bare foot pointed to the ground. The material of the pants pooled around her ankles, but not by much. The suit was obviously tailored for her size, but with a bit of space left around the hips to give her a more masculine shape. Her hair was tucked up under the bowler, which she'd canted forward to obscure her brow and the shape of her eyes in shadow. 

The drape of the jacket and shirt made it difficult to see the shape of her breasts, and I wondered if they had been bound before she dressed. She put her hands on her hips, shoulders squared, and assumed the posture of a man waiting for someone on the street corner. She smiled, and I realized how long I had been staring. I snapped myself out of the reverie as she closed the door and spun to show me her back before facing me again.

"Does it do the trick?"

I struggled to regain my composure and tilted my head in a critical manner. "That depends. Who do you wish to fool? Constables? The common man on the street? A dressmaker would see through it in a heartbeat, I'd think."

"Well, I'll have to avoid Savile Row. But perhaps a test of my ability." She took two steps forward, passing me before sliding her hand into mine. "I shall squire you out on the town, and we shall know the rate of success by the number of eyebrows we raise."

"A night out? Splendid! Where shall we go?" I kept my voice steady despite the jump in my heart at the way her hand skimmed across mine. 

"Dinner, as a beginning." She pulled me to her and clapped her other hand on my waist. "Dancing, of course."

We began to sway, despite the lack of music, and I found myself swept away in the fantasy of the moment. Would we turn heads? I'm certain we would, but not because of me. As a woman, Helena was beautiful and mysterious. Here in the shadows of her flat, male Helena was dashing and debonair. Helena led, and I soon found my mind distracted. It was easy to forget I was being held by a woman. 

To anyone else, Nell, I would claim a clouded mind and a strong imagination for what happened next. But you would see through my subterfuge and know the truth, so why waste the ink? I looked into Helena's eyes and I desired her. My hand was on the lapel of her suit jacket, and I slid it up to the stiff collar of her shirt as I brought my face to hers. Her lips parted just before mine met them, and I teased the space between them with my tongue. She stopped dancing, and I turned my head to kiss her from another angle. She spoke my name between kisses, a soft and cautious, "Irene," before my mouth quieted her again. Whatever she intended to say next was lost as a moan, and her fingers met in the small of my back.

When we parted, she smiled to disguise the flush in her cheeks. "I suppose that's one person it's fooled."

"Oh, Helena. You've not fooled me for a second." I smiled and this time I took the lead. I reached up and took the hat from her head, and her hair fell in sloppy waves over her face. I used both hands to push the hair back, tucking it behind her ears and holding her head steady as I kissed her again. This time her tongue intercepted mine, and I happily granted it dominance. 

It was not the first time I had kissed another woman, Nell, and you alone know that it wasn't the last, but I knew this was more than its predecessors. This was leading somewhere. I retreated enough to see her reaction, to make sure I was forcing nothing on her. Her lips were parted and wet from mine, and I moved my hand to the nape of her neck to tease her hair. Her eyes were wide, dark, wild, and I knew that she was going to allow me to take the next step. 

I pulled her to me, Nell, and I guided her down onto the bed. I let her lay atop me as I worked the buttons at her collar, our tongues meeting more confidently now as her hands traced the curves of my body through too-thick, too-layered clothing. When her hand passed over my breast, my breath caught in my throat so sharply I fear it would remain stuck. She eventually rose over me, my skirts gathered at my waist and her body trapped between my thighs and I saw her shirt gaping open. Her breasts were bound, and I put my hands into her shirt and fumbled to release them. 

Helena watched my face as I freed her. She took off her shirt and let it fall, and moments later I ran my hands over the curve of her breasts. I pinched her nipples between my first two fingers and she arched her back, her upper lip curling as she pressed toward me. Though she was the younger of us, I tacitly gave her the dominance in our coupling. She met my eye, and I nodded to let her know I would be submissive to her, at least for that moment. She took my wrist and guided it lower, as if sensing I wasn't sure what the next step should be. Our eyes locked, and her fingers molded mine to the crotch of her pants. She arched as I pressed against her, and I worried my bottom lip as I watched her respond. 

Soon the rest of her clothing was off, and I felt her naked body moving against my clothes. I felt warm, felt as I had when the door opened behind me and I went tumbling. She braced her hands on my shoulders and spoke softly and encouragingly as I entered her with two fingers. Her hips seemed independent of her upper body, and she writhed against my hand. It seemed impossible, that a simple touch could have such a profound effect on her entire being, but she was enraptured from head to toe. Her skin flushed, her eyes closed, her fingers tensed and her toes curled. Her legs became as stone, capturing me between them as she rose and put her arms behind her head. 

Her body stretched above me like a column of marble, her nipples dark and turgid and eager to be sucked. I put my free hand on her stomach and pushed it up between smallish breasts, and Helena drew it to her mouth and sucked the fingers. I groaned, inside of her with both hands now, and her tongue teased the tender tips of my fingers. I used my thumb against her clitoris, and Helena cried out with pleasure and release. I feared for the fate of the fingers between her legs, but they survived her clenching unscathed. 

Helena fell to me, and I held her, aching to be away from her just long enough to free myself from my own clothing. I wanted to feel her flesh on mine, wanted to share her warmth, but I didn't want to do so at the sacrifice of her breath on my throat and her eyelashes flicking my cheek as she blinked.

"Well done, dear." Her voice was breathy, as was her laugh, and she turned my head to hers. Our lips brushed together quite naturally, and then I felt her tongue moving lazily over my lips. "Well done," she said again and lowered her head to my chest even as she was falling asleep.

Dear, I seem to have drifted off. The ink has dried on the last paragraph, and I've yet to begin telling you of the remainder of the night. Of Helena undressing me at last, of looking down to see her face framed by my thighs as I felt the wonder of a tongue parting my sex. I've told you nothing of her writing, of the name you would best know her by (and you, Nell, my voracious reader, would recognize this name!). Alas, time grows short and despite the heaviness of your head, I know you can't sleep forever. Already I see stirrings of wakefulness, so I must reluctantly draw this missive to a close.

Why, you may wonder, would I be reluctant to share this with you? The truth should be plain enough now that you know dear Helena made her occupation as a writer. I fear it would make you wary of my affections. Helena and I parted ways not long before I met you, and your suspicious nature would surely draw comparisons between this mysterious British authoress and yourself. Yes, Nell, I occasionally glance over to see you penning an entry in this journal and wonder if Helena is still writing. I may see a smear of ink on your finger when I kiss your palm before we say goodnight and wonder if it is the same as Helena uses. 

I fear you would see these clues and draw an erroneous conclusion. My dear Nell, you are not a replacement for someone I lost. Helena was a doorway I had to pass through, an awakening I had to experience so I would be prepared for you. You'd have never made the first step had I been less brazen, so Helena awoke that in me. Without her, we would not be what we are now. 

You are stirring, I can see. I will let you discover this entry on your own, not press you to look immediately. But when you do, know that every word I have written is the truth. And if that is so, then the following must also be true: there are three words I never spoke to Helena, and that we have yet to say to one another. But I believe the time has come. I don't trust myself to say them aloud, so I shall take advantage of your chosen medium to say them before I lose my nerve.

I love you, Penelope. With the entirety of my heart, I love you.

#

Irene seemed so calm when I woke to find her gently blowing on the page of my journal, patiently waiting for the ink to dry before she slid the ribbon in place and closed the book on whatever she had written. She handed it back to me with her sphinxian smile and I took it with a curiosity I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing. I was aflame with questions. I was certain she'd never written in my journals before; why now? And what could she have possibly added to my notes? It devoured me, but I remained calm. I saw her watching me for the remainder of the trip, but I decided to keep the upper hand. She wanted me to read it. Desperately, it seemed. But I could wait. It would serve her right for all the secrets she had kept from me over the years.

We were nearing our destination, nearing Godfrey and an end to our time alone, and I had nearly decided to finally open the journal when Irene stunned me. "Penelope... please."

How could I refuse that? How could I ever refuse her sincerity? So I read.

I blushed. I squirmed in my berth, and occasionally looked up to see Irene gazing out the window in an attempt to not pressure me for a response. When I reached the end, my eyes refused to focus on the letters. I brushed them away with the back of my hand, not looking away until I had read the final word. I rested my palm over the small black letters as if I could absorb them again that way, then I closed the book.

Irene was watching me. I'd never seen her look so... adrift. Eager for a response. 

"Oh, Irene," I whispered. "Your handwriting isn't that bad."

The skin between Irene's eyebrows wrinkled, and then her eyes widened slightly as I smiled. She lifted her chin and laughed, and I joined her. When we were composed again, I moved to Irene's seat, turning to face her as I took her hands in mine. I brought them to my lips and kissed the knuckles, and then I kissed her lips, and then I moved my mouth to her ear.

What was said doesn't need to be transcribed to this journal, nor any other.


End file.
